The Red Thread
by thescienceofbeekeeping
Summary: With Sherlock dead, there's nothing left for John in London. He's reenlisted, and is headed back for Kabul. Can Sherlock make it back in time to convince him to stay? Or will someone else get a hold of John first?
1. Chapter 1

The stiff leather armchair groaned under John's shifting weight, and the man thought that Mycroft had never – _never_ – experienced an unposh thing in his life. His office was all dark wood and leather, smelling faintly of port wine and furniture wax. The combination did nothing for John's headache. The dim light from the lamp on the desk heightened the sensuality of the décor; the click of Anthea's heels moving away on the inlaid floor adding to the air of sophistication. John felt stifled, choked by the deep shadows.

_Why can't Mycroft just talk on the phone like a normal person?_John let his eyes slip closed. It was too much, this. The waiting game, the power play . . ._ We've been through this much, for God's sake . . ._

A grandfather clock ticked steadily in a darkened corner as night pressed in on the windows. It had to be at least midnight. John's spine ached, his calves twitched, and a tightness gnawed the pit of his stomach.

The chaos at Bart's had exhausted him. Chasing down the gurney on quaking legs before strangers pulled him back, their cold fingers in his jacket sleeves and tugging on his shoulders, his waist; cheeks whipped by snow flurries as he tore out of their grips to open the back door by the mortuary, standing in the middle of the floor without realizing; screaming, screaming, until there was no more sound and the cement floor was freezing under his hands and the faces above him were obliterated in white noise and he couldn't remember where he was, why he was there, what had happened. He shivered, looking around at the heavy door in the hopes that Mycroft would show up and just get this all over with. Elbows on his knees, John placed his head into his palms, praying that the silence of the moment would drag on until he could fade away into sleep.

A warm hand clapped down on his shoulder and he jumped, panic flooding his throat before he caught sight of the flawlessly creased cuff. Mycroft moved to stand in front of him and held out a glass of water. The brim nearly reached John's lips before bile churned his gut; he placed it on the table beside him as Mycroft sank into the chair behind the desk, suit only slightly ruffled, eyes only the tiniest bit reddened.

When Mycroft spoke, his words were slow and soft, and he placed a quavering hand on his desk, smoothing it over the wood, as if to centre himself.

"I took the liberty of going to the mortuary on your behalf."

It all came back again in a crash. John felt hollow inside.

"You unbelievable bastard." It came in a shaky whisper, and Mycroft looked up to meet John's burning gaze. The man stood, trembling. A freezing grip wrenched at John's insides. The lamp illuminated the deep circles under his eyes and the strained, bulging veins in his wrists as he clenched his fists. John made sure to enunciate, eyes gluing Mycroft to his seat. "I was in Lestrade's office for five hours. I've been up for almost three days straight. And you bring me here, in the middle of the night after hours of . . . interrogation: to dismiss it all? To tell me that everything's done with, thank you, Doctor, we don't need you anymore?"

Mycroft cleared his throat, adjusted his tie. Business as usual. "You have been vital in this circumstance, Doctor. Your sacrifices—"

"Don't treat me like some pawn." John's jaw was set and his eyes were blazing. "You—you didn't even consider me, did you? You forgot all about me." He exhaled with a ragged breath and fisted his hands in his hair.

"How did he look, Mycroft? Was he even cold by the time you got there?"

"John, I—"

"How bad were his bruises? How many broken bones?" The scene flashed through his mind again in horrific clarity. "God . . . you _knew_ I was there, for Christ's sake, why couldn't you—" John gulped air, quashing the waves of nausea. He wished his hands would stop shaking. "Was it Molly on call? Oh, you would, you _would,_ you _fucking_—"

"John . . ." whether it was threat or emotion he detected in Mycroft's voice, he couldn't tell. John swallowed thickly, balling his fists tighter. It was an effort just to hold himself together. His head was swimming. Any second now, he would crash into a heap on the floor and never be able to get up again._ Keep moving, _he told himself. _That's how you win the game. Keep moving, and don't say his name. You'll never win, then. _He wouldn't let Mycroft bully him. Not over this.

The tightness in John's throat was unbearable, but he forced the words out. "You couldn't just give me that, could you? Not even one minute alone?" His hands fell to his sides, lips twitching in a bitter smirk. "Unbelievable."

Silence dragged out, torturous and suffocating. Mycroft stared through him, refusing to meet his eyes. His words were slow, too slow. There was too much thought behind them. "I am profoundly sorry."

_How can he be so aloof? _The idea of Mycroft standing placidly over that shattered body, no tears, no feeling at all, robbing John of his chance to . . .

The stomp of John's boot as he grounded his stance in front of the desk shook the room.

"No! You don't care, you never have! You only ever watched out for him because it would come back to you if you didn't. You never gave a _shit,_ Mycroft. You couldn't be arsed to do a damn thing if there weren't something in it for you." His voice was cracking, his chest burning and his eyes watering but he didn't care. "Have you ever even hugged your brother? Made him laugh? Shook his bloody _hand_, for God's sake? Tell me!" he roared. John thought his skull would split open with the pressure.

"John, one thing that you should know about my life by now: our upbringing was not a sentimental one. My brother lived as selfishly as anyone ever could have. I looked after him because he never would have bothered to do so. And if you are willing—"

Uneasy laughter filled the room. "Sentiment? _Sentiment?_ Are you out of your head? No, Mycroft. This isn't diplomacy, all right? This isn't . . . Jesus, for once, I want you to be straight with me."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." Mycroft looked up at him, his lips pressed together in a tight line. Fear flooded him for a fraction of a second as the doctor growled deep in his throat and threw his hands into the air.

"I saw you not ten hours ago and you couldn't muster up a proper crocodile tear then, either. Can you even grasp what you've done? Do you even feel a damn thing right now?" He was shouting. A gust of wind rattled the windows.

John thought he saw a tic in Mycroft's cheek. "Doctor Watson, compose yourself. You are a soldier. Act like it."

_I will kill him. I will strangle him in his chair and that will be the end of it. _John quickly banished the thought from his mind. _Don't do anything rash. You need him. You need this._

"I'm not your soldier."

Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "The reason I brought you here, was to say that anything I can do for you, it will be done without hesitation."

John stepped back. "I already told you, no. What, you think you're going to buy me? You've never done anything for anyone before, why me?"

Mycroft's sigh was tired. "When I first met you and deemed you a suitable companion for my brother, I intended to watch over both of you. And that is not a decision that I am going to withdraw. I understand that this is a poor form of apology, but I hope that you'll accept it." His words were clipped, breath ragged through his nostrils.

John fought against the heat brimming behind his eyes by digging his nails into his palms. _You know what comes next. There's no avoiding it. Just say it. _His mouth was dry, and the word came out more of a rasp than a question. "Cremation?"

Mycroft's breath hitched in his throat. "Yes."

There was a flash of dull metal, a trickle of blood running down the side of John's neck, and he was leaning over the desk again, a renewed resolution shining in his eyes. Mycroft swallowed thickly, refusing to break their stare.

"You want to help me, Mycroft? You make sure I'm reenlisted as soon as possible. You're going to drop me back in Kabul."

Mycroft shook his head, a faint smile pulling on his lips. "Do you have any idea just how much bribery and fake paperwork that would take? It's out of the question."

"You think I care? I'm done with you playing me, Mycroft. It's my turn. You said you'd do anything for me that I asked. This is it. You've got until July. And Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade – none of them are to know about it."

The smile disappeared, and Mycroft fixed John with a look he'd never seen before. He couldn't read it. It was infuriating. "You are asking me to erase you from the face of the earth. Have you thought about this at all?"

"Are we clear, Mycroft?"

"Oh, of course you've thought about it, haven't you? This has been in the back of your head for a while. Your mind's been made up for a long time."

John's fists on his lapels were dusty, his knuckles and palms calloused. His fingers left streaks of sweat on the silk, tiny dots of blood from whatever he was holding sitting hot on Mycroft's neck.

"Are we clear?"

Mycroft let out a shaky exhale. Their shared stare was electric. "Certainly."

John unfurled his fist and tossed the object onto the desk. It skidded across the surface and pooled in Mycroft's lap: a beaded chain with two ID discs. John wrapped his coat over his shoulders.

"Cremation's tomorrow, yeah? Melt those down, while you're at it." The groan of the door was deep, John's footsteps in the hall heavy and a little too fast. Mycroft sighed into the weighty solitude of the room.

He detached one of the discs from the chain and placed it in his desk drawer, and coiled the chain into his pocket beside his pocket-watch. The phone in his hand was cool against the flush of his cheek. The line on the other end didn't even ring before it connected.

"_Trouble already, brother?"_There was high wind in the background. Good. They'd made it safely.

"The plan's been compromised, I'm afraid."

"_I need time, Mycroft. This is going to take planning."_

"And you'll need my help, of course."

Silence. Despite the pounding in his chest, Mycroft smiled.

" _. . . How long?"_

"You have six months."

"_How is—"_

"I have eyes everywhere. If anything happens with John, we'll know."

"_I'll be in touch, but I can't promise any regularity. And Mycroft . . ."_

"Yes, Sherlock. Anthea is bringing him home now."

"_. . . Thank you."_

The line cut out abruptly. Mycroft put down the phone and fingered the unfamiliar bulge in his pocket. Miss Hooper would cry, most surely, when he presented her with the chain. He would have to arrange a light week of work for her as recompense. He clicked the lamp off with trembling fingers, breathing in composure from the heavy shroud of the night.

Tomorrow. The tragedy could wait until tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

There were no more straight measurements of time; no minutes or days or hours. There were times with nightmares and there were longer, less lucid stretches of time without nightmares.

John wasn't sure which was more terrifying: the fear he remembered, or the comfort he'd forgot.

For ten weeks, he camped in the corner of Clara's living room, fenced in by a threadbare blanket and the contents of his suitcase. His days were measured with clinical care, meted out in increments of sanity and tedium: in pieces of cold toast in the morning, sutures in the afternoon, sit-ups and bad comedy reruns in the evenings. He did his best to stay out of the way and Clara did her best to act like he wasn't really there. They skirted the situation with a tepid mutual respect, and for that John was grateful. If John couldn't sleep he would take walks, or refold the blanket over the couch and tidy the kitchen for her. He became very familiar with the cracks in the sidewalk and with the pattern of Clara's dishes. When she expressed concern, in her terse way, he chalked it up to the cement floor of her flat and the heavier traffic than he was used to at Baker Street. He almost started to believe himself, but then the moment came that there were no more excuses left for him to make.

He hadn't realized it, he'd been in a daze, but there he was: standing in front of the familiar green door and using the knocker he'd never used, the weight of it foreign in his hands. And when Mrs. Hudson hugged him and moved to the side to let him in it seemed that her eyes were not so bright as before.

"Will you be back for good, now?" she asked hesitantly. John couldn't decide if he'd missed her warbling coos or if they were setting him on edge. The pattern of her dress made his chest and head ache in a way he didn't understand.

"I really don't know."

She nodded, a wavering dip of her head, and placed her hand on the banister. His foot creaked on the first step, and the familiar echo of it made him shiver with nausea. Knives pierced the soles of his feet as he climbed. His fingers dragged weakly along the wall.

It took him five minutes to place his hand on the doorknob. Another three to turn it.

As he pushed the door open he braced himself for old air and a rush of familiar scents, and so was surprised by the warm breeze ruffling the curtains. He remembered to exhale and stood in the doorway, blinking in the bright light blaring through the windows. Of course, everything was where it had been. No one had come here since Lestrade's team that night.

He put one arm up on the doorjamb, surveying the books, the half-empty mugs, the stacks of papers, the cinders in the fireplace . . . and the realization that none of it was his, that all of it _was_ his; circumstance – it made him shudder, made him stumble into the middle of the living room to stand there, not sure of where he could set his body down and not feel as if he'd desecrated something private and preserved.

His breath caught in his throat, eyes refusing to focus on the rosin box on the coffee table or the pipette stuck in the crevice of a chair . . . 

He stared blankly around for a minute, before carrying himself with shaking legs up the stairs to his room.

The air here _had_ soured, with no open window to clear it—soiled clothes in the laundry bin, sun-faded curtains heavy with dust. He sat on a corner of the rumpled bed and stared at the wall; didn't notice he'd dug his nails into his knees until he shifted his weight.

_Come on now, you can't stay in here forever. Safest ship is the one in the harbor, and all that. _

_Well. _

With a deep breath that burned the back of his throat he pushed himself up and opened the door, prepared to head downstairs and out to buy supplies. His body had a different plan, taking him around the other side of the kitchen table and into the bathroom, where he knelt over the tub with eyes shut tight and heaved, bile rancid in his throat and nose, the shower spray pouring over his head until his nerves stopped fluttering. His fingers felt boneless as he struggled with the tap, hair dripping into his eyes, icy rivulets running down his shoulders and into the waist of his trousers.

The sun fled behind a cloud and the flat went cold. His boot heels left half-moons of water on the floor as he hurried to shut the windows.

_This would have been enough time for anyone else. You could have been done by now, _John thought as he staggered up the staircase and into the living room, arms piled with implements of destruction. _You've been cowardly, is what you've been. You can do this if you don't think about it. _

_Just do it, for God's sake. Get it done and then it will be all over with._

_Just . . . do it._

So, now, John measured time in the number of boxes and rolls of tape it would take to put away a life. Every day, whenever he was not needed in the surgery, he was preoccupied with battle plans for dismantling the flat, maneuvering his body best so that he could crate things without looking at them, without considering _anything_, in fact; until he was grimy and his arms were shaking. Then, he'd shower and head downstairs to have dinner with Mrs. Hudson. Walkways appeared between stacks of boxes as the pieces around him were put away: sometimes placed neatly, sometimes willy-nilly. Sentiment was reserved for only the most sacrosanct of objects. The violin case, for example, made its home under John's bed. All of the other things were blurred shapes, objects without any definition or function. Placeholders. Props. John felt as if he were surrounded by cardboard cutouts of things he'd once loved, briefly and passionately, like a child with a new toy. A dollhouse replica of his life.

Things that couldn't fit into boxes were wrapped with paper and more tape than was necessary and shoved out of sight: into the space beneath the sink, behind the couch, on top of the kitchen shelves. The stacks were growing higher every day. He cleared the refrigerator with sweeps of his arm, shoving everything inside into the rubbish bin. When it was empty he scrubbed it clean and unplugged it. It meant more time with Mrs. Hudson, but if she wasn't going to complain, then he wasn't, either.

He was 40 large boxes in before John realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he'd outdone himself. The living room was nearly finished, the kitchen in shambles but halfway gone. It was too fast.

_I can do this. I don't need help, I can get it done. I can . . . _

Molly's voice was soft over the phone.

"_Hi, John? How are you doing? Is everything all right?" _Her pauses were, careful, calculated. Clinical. John sighed with relief.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I was wondering if you'd want to get a pint with me tonight?"

The pub was noisy, which suited him fine. He'd been losing his words. Talking was tiring. He and Mrs. Hudson even ate their suppers in near silence. He hoped Molly didn't notice the tightness in his shoulders, the ground set of his jaw. She didn't say anything, anyways.

"What do you need, John?" The question came of a sudden. John could barely hear her over the din of the pub.

"A favor. A big favor." He tried to smile, but wasn't sure if his mouth remembered the movement. Molly's eyes flickered over his face. John thought her grin mirrored his a little too closely.

"Is this to do w—"

"Yes."

Her face tightened, but John could tell that the smile she gave him was the sincerest she could manage. "Leave it to me. Take a day off."

"God bless you, Miss Hooper." He meant it, too. As much as he meant anything, lately.

They clanked their glasses together. When it came time to say goodbye neither could meet the other's eyes, and John took the long route to get back to Baker Street.

The next day, John ran laps between Green Park and Trafalgar Square until he was tripping over the rough pavement stones and the lamps were coming on. When he arrived back at the flat, a note on the door in dainty cursive was all the information he needed. He stripped out of his sweaty clothes and showered and pounded down the stairs to have supper with Mrs. Hudson, unable to bring himself to look down the hall to the now-emptied room. Molly had had the consideration to close the door for him, at least.

_Good girl._

As there was less to do, there was more to think about, and that wasn't a risk John could afford to take. He'd borrowed a crate of Mike Stamford's CDs to play on the portable radio, to keep his mind busy. The small collection sitting on the bookshelf had been one of the first things into the boxes; it would be useless trying to drag them out now. Stamford's selection was better suited for cleaning, anyways, if not necessarily in better taste: the Corrs, Alice in Chains, the Ramones, U2 . . .

_If I never hear Haydn, Bach, or Rachmaninoff again, it will be too bloody soon. _

Sometimes, late at night when he would allow himself a fitful doze on the floor between the boxes, his breath would come in shallow gasps and the tendons of his neck would burn, feet itching to stand in front of the closed door at the end of the hall. After the fourth time, his headache was so bad he had to go up to his room to shove his head under a pillow and sleep properly. The next morning he encased the knob with a cover of clingfilm so thick there was no hope of ever getting it off with anything less than a hacksaw.

He stuffed extra bits of film into the keyhole for good measure.

He also threw away his hacksaw.

It was 84 haphazardly-sized boxes and 66 rolls of tape later that John received his letter of approval from the doctor's office. Mycroft had been too good about it; it was as if John's shoulder hadn't so much as a freckle. It arrived at an opportune time: the immovable furniture was now covered with plastic sheets and the boxes were piled high in front of the fireplace, the hearth scrubbed to shining, the kitchen table dismantled and the chairs stacked neatly in the corner. With not much more to do than rewash empty cupboards and wait for Mrs. Hudson to call him down, John took the short walk down the street to the gymnasium and signed up. It was a high-end 24-hour centre, and John relished the burning ache spreading through his shoulders and calves on his walk home in the wee hours. Stretching his limbs before falling exhausted onto the kitchen floor to sleep meant he didn't have to notice the currents of empty space drifting in the air, leaving shadows of memory in their wake. It meant that he wouldn't catch himself maneuvering around furniture that had once been there, ghosts made of cloth and particle board.

They were ghosts all the same.

Four more large boxes, one more roll of tape. These were slow going, as the surgery had been busy and the gym was more tempting a distraction than sitting and blaring Sheryl Crow for the 45th time as he scrubbed the floors. It was just past two in the morning when John threw open the door to the flat a little too heavily, heart still pounding and nerves on edge from his routine. As he flicked on the light, the suddenness of the interior shocked him: even after all of his work, his memory still anticipated the warm browns and soft greys of . . . _stuff. _He realized he'd never seen the flat empty before; that to him it had always been populated. The walls leaned inward, there were rough patches in the floor, minute cracks in the plaster of the ceiling. A clod of dust he'd missed was nestled into a corner he couldn't ever remember being there.

This wasn't where he'd lived. Finally, the disconnect he'd craved rushed into his mind and relieved the knot sitting deep in his gut.

He sat in the tub with the lights off and the curtain drawn closed. A steady stream of water dripped into the drain until the morning.

The lorry came early—John made sure to have tea ready anyways, and when the movers eyed the mishmash of boxes he did his best to smile and ignore their grumblings. They were struggling with the sofa, trying to figure out how best to fit it through the doorway when Mycroft slipped noiselessly through the side door.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," he smiled faintly, and John's sunken posture with paper cup in hand put him at ease. He held the small key out to the shorter man. John took it and put it in his pocket without a word.

"In case you are unable to read the sticker on the key, it's 37G, on the second level. Climate-controlled, insured; everything should be fine there."

"Thank you, Mycroft." John's voice was soft, and tired. They stepped into the kitchen space to make way for the movers. The shorter man cleared his throat and sipped self-consciously at his tea. "You don't happen to know these people who'll be coming in . . ."

"I selected them personally. A respectable, quiet couple who hope to start a business down the road. Oh, John, I do hope you mended the wall before now."

John nodded his head toward the sheet of copy paper taped up over the bullet holes. Mycroft sighed.

"Everything else is in order, I presume?"

John's eyes went wide, and put his cup down on the counter and scrabbled for the key in his pocket. "Shit, no, actually. Wait a moment." He hurried down the corridor to the door at the end.

He'd packed away even his pocketknife. _You're an idiot, _he muttered as he feebly attacked the wad of plastic with the key. Tiny crumbs and strips would peel off, but nothing substantial. He pressed his forehead to the cool wood of the door, even now a scent something like black currants and chocolate and tobacco creeping out, and he was stabbing at the doorknob and kicking at the foot of the door in frustration. Mycroft placed a soft hand over his and pulled him away.

"Allow me." His tiny penknife made short work, and he gingerly pulled the rubbish off.

John had turned to watch the movers carrying out the last of the boxes, one with the area rug rolled and thrown over his shoulders.

"Did you want to—"

"No. No thank you, Mycroft, no. It's fine."

Mycroft held the ball of plastic out in front of him like it was something fragile.

"Is there somewhere I might put this?"

"Yeah, I'll take it. Go along, I'll be down in a moment, I just need to collect the movers' rubbish."

He was alone in the flat, with a plastic bag and two fistfuls of refuse. He felt ill. The light wasn't right, the smell of the air wasn't right, all of the usual scents were gone, he couldn't—

He dropped the bag to the floor and squatted down in front of the locked door. The light coming in through the tiny chink at the bottom was warm and golden; and that human smell was still there, barely . . .

A horn honked from outside: John bit his tongue and kicked viciously at the plastic bag. It floated down somewhere in the middle of the flat, but he was already on the last stair and leaving his hand for a second too long on the handle of the front door.

As they pulled away, the mover driving the lorry switched on the radio, all static and angry hiss. John had never been so grateful for noise in his life, squeezed in between two burly men whose names he didn't know, and would never learn. The discomfort was relieving.

It was May, and the day was warm, and he moved everything into the storage compartment without a problem. The violin case, he hung on a nail in the wall.

It was May. He would be leaving in three weeks.

That promise was bright in his mind as he knocked on Clara's door. When she didn't answer, he let himself in.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly couldn't grip the lighter tightly enough; the dark and the crashing of the waves had her set especially on edge. Between her nerves and the wind pounding her body she thought she'd shake apart. "Can't _you_ light it?"

Sherlock's cigarette was ready to fly from his lips in the squall. He didn't look up. "I'm texting."

"You haven't got matches?"

"Too windy for matches. Try again."

She sighed and rubbed at her forehead, damp with sea spray blown up from the beach. "Give it to me."

"You don't smoke."

"I can light the thing easier, can't I?"

The cigarette blazed in the dark, winking at the lights from the cottage down the hill. Molly handed it over and spat as primly as she could. The deep chuckle above her made her jump.

A pause. The wind was howling and her teeth chattered. "Why can't we go inside?"

"I'm waiting on a phone call from Mycroft. You wouldn't leave me alone out here, even if you wanted to."

She sighed again, and hugged her arms tighter about herself, pulling her sleeves down over her fists and bowing her head against the wind. How she longed for the rickety, threadbare cot in the hotel room with its stony pillows. Anything to lie down and sleep dreamlessly, to clear her head of the day's madness. It kept looping in her mind's eye— the look on Sherlock's face when she pulled him out of the mortuary cooler as John's screams echoed down the hallway. The entire car ride, 250 miles west in a straight line, he sat in absolute silence, staring straight ahead with his fists balled tight in his lap. She had wanted to touch him, just a hand on his shoulder, to remind him that he was human . . . but she was afraid that he would shatter into a thousand pieces, and so she pressed her head to the window and let the tears roll down her cheeks until their tracks were dry. Molly thought, maybe, she finally understood his detachment.

No, she wouldn't leave him alone. She couldn't.

The sudden weight of his coat on her shoulders surprised her. She snuggled into it gratefully. Sherlock, phone to his ear, walked off a few feet and stared up at the starry sky, cigarette smoke and the noise of the conversation tearing away from him in the wind. The coat smelled not entirely unpleasant – the tobacco scent was overpowered by that of wet wool, and something nebulous, warm . . . it wasn't what she'd expected.

When he came back, dragging on the end of his cigarette, his brow was furrowed. Molly knew better than to ask. He flicked the stub away and it sputtered like a firefly caught in the grass.

Sherlock's hand wrapped briefly around hers as he stowed the phone back in its pocket. She looked up. Their faces were very close. Even in the dark and the gloom of the Pembrokeshire coast, his eyes burned.

"You have been very brave, Molly."

The acid knot in her stomach lessened a bit. Her lip trembled.

"I'm . . . I'm still scared."

His palm hovered just above her cheek, warm and tentative. "Everything's going to be fine."

Molly thought of John, how she'd caught a glimpse of him through the swinging mortuary doors as she rushed the dummy to an empty A&E. In a heap on the floor, surrounded by people she couldn't recognize – he was trapped. Prey circled by hungry ghosts. She shuddered.

_I'm going to have to keep lying, _she realized. Her stress was giving way to emotion. Fear hammered at the base of her throat. _I have to keep John broken to keep him safe. _

"That's not true." She whispered. Her words were lost on the scream of the wind. Sherlock guided her down the hill toward the cottage.

"Mycroft's sending the car back for you tomorrow morning. You'll have plenty of time to get to work. No one will have missed you."

She turned to face him as they reached the front door. The hot prick of tears flashed behind her eyes again, and she searched his face in the dim lamplight for anything she could use to reach out to him. His pupils were pinpricks, his mouth set in a firm line. He was terrifying. Molly had never seen him with such a look of resolve.

"What about you?" she asked. Her mouth felt heavy; she had trouble forming words. She couldn't look away from those piercing eyes.

"I'll be going away for a while."

Her eyes were welling up, now. _Why am I so upset? He can take care of himself. It won't be for long._

"Everything is going to be fine." There it was again; the strain in his voice, his recognition of the necessity of comfort without understanding why it was important.Dry, cool lips brushed fleetingly over her forehead. She could feel the rationalization in the gesture. _This is what one does? To comfort._

Before she could respond, Sherlock was through the door and halfway up the staircase to their room. Her face was hot, a headache pounding at her temples. She bit the inside of her mouth to keep the tears from spilling.

The door to their room was open. Sherlock's suitcase was laid out on his bed, filled with clothes Molly could never imagine him wearing. He was pulling everything out, refolding, reorganizing. The dull, sharp metal of a magazine poked out from one of the mesh baskets. She swallowed thickly, eyes wide.

"Where will you go?" Her voice wavered, and she inwardly cursed herself. She felt so small. She always felt too small around Sherlock. Molly knew she was capable, bright . . . but it all fell away next to him.

"This is a fight between Mycroft and Moriarty's people, now, Molly. And Mycroft doesn't lose. Relax. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"Why, because the worst is already over?" She hadn't meant to raise her voice. "You keep saying everything's fine. It's not. John's not okay. _I'm _not okay, and I know you're alive." She heaved a deep sigh, pressing her lips and fumbling with the handle of her bedside table drawer. She stared up at the wall. "You're selfish, Sherlock. Do you know that? How selfish you are."

"Molly . . ." his voice was quiet, and she turned to look at him as his suitcase clicked shut. He slid it under the bed and stood at the window. "This isn't about me."

Her hand slapped down on the table, but it didn't resonate with the gravity she intended. "It is _all_ about you!" Her voice cracked, coming out as a whine instead of a shout. "Everything I've ever been . . . wrapped up in, it's because . . ." She slumped onto the bed, turned away from him. For a moment, there was a heavy silence. "You know I didn't swear in public until I was nineteen?"

Sherlock gave her that lopsided smile. "You're the good girl."

"I haven't always liked to be."

"But you are, just the same."

The bed shifted as he sat down on the other side, still looking out of the window. "This isn't over yet."

"I know."

"I might still need your help. That need may come suddenly, without warning."

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'm happy to do it."

"It might be difficult. Potentially dangerous."

She drew a silent, stuttering breath. "I'll do it."

"Are you just saying that?"

"I'm hiding in St. Ishmael's with a dead man." Molly could hear the twitch of his lips. The bed groaned as he stood.

"Everything all right?" She felt as if he could disappear at any moment, just step around a corner and vanish. It wouldn't be the first time. He was ethereal, like that. He pulled the lighter and a cigarette from his coat pocket.

"I'm just going outside for a minute. Go to sleep, Molly. We're safe here, don't worry." He closed the door behind him, and Molly hurried into the bathroom.

The shower was scalding, but she didn't care. The water pressure and the heat were enough to work some of the knots out of her back and hips. She stood for longer than she needed, taking in deep steam-filled breaths, willing her muscles to unclench, her mind to stop racing. The towels were threadbare and coarse. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, lit only by the nightlight beside the sink, she stopped. Her hair curled softly around her face in dripping tendrils, her chest and neck a bright red swath of flushed skin. Her eyes were gleaming, drug bright, pupils constricted to pinpricks. In the dim illumination, it made her look like a selkie, or a ghost. A ghost selkie.

_You are too tired, _she thought, unable to stifle a nervous giggle. Peeking through the crack in the door to make sure that Sherlock hadn't returned yet, Molly wrestled into her pyjamas and slid into her bed, the light, cool press of the cotton soothing on her heated skin.

She dreamt of Sherlock, shrouded in white cloth with great feathered wings arching behind, skin flickering between marble-pale and morbid blue. His step was regal, slow, the sheet dragging behind him through the hotel hallways. John was limping after him, through corridors and doorways, never catching up, never gaining ground. She put out hands to John's shoulders, to push him farther, but she fell through, her fingers brushing a swath of linen and there was a keening screech, some sort of animal scream and she was dragging Sherlock out of the mortuary cooler, pulling the modesty cloth off of him, dragging him by the hand down the corridor to where John was crumpled in the corner of the darkened lab, blood on his hands and fear in his eyes. Translucent figures of Jim's face danced around him, snarling, gnashing teeth, like hallucinations. Molly rushed to the light switch, and with the burn of the fluorescent tubes Jim's doppelgangers disintegrated. Sherlock clutched her hand, and she held John's hand, and they were weaving up staircases and through laboratories until all were sweating and gasping for breath. Molly's grip on Sherlock slipped as he kicked the exit door open, and she pulled John through the blinding sun into Sherlock's room, empty, her cardigan still over the chair at his desk. John's hand was gone from hers, and then a fist was connecting with her cheek and there were shrill cries of _I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ and Jim was standing over her with her bathrobe in his hands and her hands were full the ankles of his trousers. There was water on the floor of her bathroom and her head ached from where she'd cracked against the counter.

She shivered, turning and pulling the blankets tighter around her.

Outside, the tide was receding, and with it the wind was dying down. Sherlock sucked hungrily at his cigarette, relishing the burn in his throat and the sting at the corner of his eyes. The last of the cottage windows went dark, plunging him into near blackness.

He walked without direction, relying on his balance and intuition to guide him rather than his sight. A hill came before him; the dewy grass under his fingers, slipping beneath his shoes was invigorating.

It was a trick of the night, of course – entirely impossible for the lights of London to be shining so clearly against the Welsh horizon. But Sherlock closed his eyes and the map back to Baker Street unfolded in front of him, the path arrow-straight and crimson, burning in the dark.

His mouth tasted bitter, and he threw his half-finished cigarette away. Something cold and hard pressed inside his chest and he gasped for air, going down on one knee as he struggled to catch his breath.

The echoes of the waves crashing against the shore held a cadence of whispers and sobs.

Sherlock slipped into the vacant bed still in his clothes, comforted by the gentle snores from across the room. For the first time in six days, he let his eyes slip closed. His arm curled instinctively over his chest, and the pain subsided a little.

He dreamt of map pins and airports and car rentals and travel toothbrushes and through all of it his chest was ready to burst open, he was fighting against time, trying to make it home before his body could no longer take the stress of being away.

Both of them lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, knowing the other was awake but unwilling to speak.

When the lull and roar of the waves pulled them back down, they were without dreams.


End file.
